


Lonely, Lonely

by desticockles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, M/M, pretty much just fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desticockles/pseuds/desticockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When imagination and reality become one, a lonely man finds love where there was once only canvas and paint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely, Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how or why this popped into my head, but I hope you enjoy it anyway :)

Castiel was a lonely man. He lived alone in a small apartment with very little furnishing within the confines of it’s barren, off-white walls. There were no family photos on the wall, no awards or trophies on the shelves, not even a single potted plant. He had a bed, a couch, an old television, and a single painting hung up on the living room wall.

The painting was one he had received as a gift from his sister, Anna, before she died.

Castiel missed her horribly.

The painting was of another lonely man, who stood in an empty field of tall gold grass, a purple sky above his head of neat brown hair. Castiel named the man Dean, and Dean became Castiel’s closest friend.

When Castiel was bored, upset, or sad, he would talk to Dean, because even if Dean wasn’t listening, Castiel could still pretend.

Some times Castiel would create a past for Dean. He never meant for it to be such a painful past, but over time something simple and heartwarming morphed into a story of tragedy and loss.

Some nights Dean would come to Castiel’s dreams and they would talk to each other. Dean’s eyes were bright and lively here, sparkling viridescent and swirling with emotions, unlike the sad, flat eyes he wore in the painting. Here Dean was warm and real and he listened to Castiel. His voice was smooth and low, his arms open and his heart on his sleeve.

Castiel woke one morning and realized that he had, quite foolishly, fallen in love with Dean.

The next night when he slept he dreamt of Dean, and his heart was caught in his throat. 

They lay together in a field of swaying gold grass and pink paper flowers, with very little space between them, and Castiel was falling. They sky above them spun and changed colors rapidly, ambivalent and restless, just as Castiel had been. Dean had clearly wanted to ask what was wrong with their sky, but he said nothing about the issue, instead remaining contently quiet by Castiel’s side.

“Dean?” He had asked, and Dean turned his head to look him in the eye.

“What’s up, Cas?”

“Would it be strange if I… if I told you I think I might be in love with you?”

Castiel swallowed thickly and stared into Dean’s glimmering green eyes, hoping that he hadn’t made a mistake. Dean’s mouth slowly turned up in a smile, and between them he thread their fingers together. Castiel’s cheeks grew warm and he smiled back at Dean, his heart beating hard and fast in his chest.

“I love you, too, Cas.”

Castiel felt warm all over; spreading from his chest to his feet and everywhere in between. He sighed and turned to stare up at their calm purple sky, wishing that this could be real.

That morning Castiel awoke feeling warm and safe, and soon realized that he was not alone in his bed. A pair of warm arms were draped over him, holding him close, and when he turned in those arms he was met by a pair of startled green eyes.

“What… is this real?”

“I have no idea,” Dean had answered, his muscles tensing. Castiel pressed a tentative hand to the warm, soft skin of Dean’s chest, against the carefully inked tattoo over his heart, feeling a heartbeat pulsing heavily beneath his fingertips. 

Real. 

Bloody, beating, and real.

“How?” Castiel asked, pointlessly. 

Dean did not answer. Instead he stared with wild eyes, seemingly searching for an answer in Castiel’s face. There were none there, though, he knew. They both knew that.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Dean asked, smiling a shaky smile.

“I suppose not,” Castiel had agreed, tracing the lines of Dean’s tattoo. A thought had struck him, quite suddenly, and he peered up at Dean with questioning blue eyes, as he asked “memories?”

“What kind?”

“The one’s I gave you. Of your family.”

Dean frowned and nodded, placing his fingers gently atop Castiel’s, stroking his knuckles so very softly.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered, staring intently at their hands, ashamed. He thought he must have caused Dean so much pain burdening him with such a horrible past.

It started with a love like no other, and a child whose cradle lay underneath a miniature set of stars that spun above his little head. It started with a child whose father was gone, and whose mother was sad; whose sandwiches were always crustless, his pies always homemade and fresh, and his hugs always tight and loving. It started with a child whose mother sang him Beatles songs to lull him to sleep when he thought there might be a monster in the closet, or when his father hadn’t come home in too long.

Then there came a second child, four years later, who didn’t get to know his beautiful mother. A fire, intense and hot as the flames in the pits of hell, licking and spitting, devouring the beautiful mother whose younger son would never remember her gorgeous face, her soft touch and warm hugs, or her divine voice singing lullabies to cast light upon the shadows of the unknown. Only vague memories of long blond hair and bright eyes dancing with mirth; memories that boy would always assume to be nothing more than dreams, no context to put the images to.

Then there came a house made half of coal, and half of memories. A house from which only three emerged when there once were four. A house of cards blown down by a cruel yellow wind, the stench of sulfur and ash all that was left in the end, sizzling and puffing in protest of the cold water shot from a fireman’s hose.

Then years of searching for something that could never be found, of trying desperately to forget while hopelessly trying to remember all at once. Years of enervating silence, ceaseless movement, and of an excessive amount of alcohol consumed by a mourning man; a man who was not a father, but a husband, unable to accept his role. Years of chasing a yellow fog, too distant to touch, fingertips grazing the edge of the elusive yellow haze.

Then years of blood and gore; of monsters and demons, literal and metaphorical alike.

Then a car crash, a hospital, and a grim fate narrowly escaped only by way of transference. Closely followed by a trip to Hell.

Castiel never meant to insert himself into Dean’s past, but found that he had no other choice. He wanted to fix the mistakes he had made, giving Dean such a sad past, and so he made himself an angel, reaching into the pit he had unwittingly thrown Dean into to pull him back out, righting the wrongs of his wandering mind.

And now here they lie.

Together.

“It’s okay,” Dean assured, tracing a finger over Castiel’s jaw with a feather-light touch, up to his brow, along his nose, beneath his eye where the sleepless nights have left their mark. “At least I _have_ a past.”

“I made you suffer,” Castiel argued quietly, his eyes fluttering closed. With eyes shut, Dean’s touch was so much more intense; tingling and burning with warmth. Castiel’s heart stuck in his throat at the affection he felt within that touch.

“But now I’m real, and I have you. Those things didn’t really happen, anyway. They may feel real, but I know they’re not. What is real, is us, here,” Dean swept the pad of his finger across Castiel’s lips, “and I wouldn’t trade those memories for _anything_ else if it meant I wouldn’t get this.”

“Dean, that is absurd,” Castiel started, but fell silent when Dean hushed him with his lips.

“I know. But isn’t all of this?” Dean whispered against Castiel’s mouth, lips brushing, breath steady and hot.

“Definitely,” Castiel answered.

“Then trust me, Cas.” Dean pressed another kiss to Castiel’s lips, then smiled softly against them, “Cause this is real, and I’ve never had real. I love it. I love you.”

“I lo-” Castiel had begun, but was cut short by the hard press of Dean’s lips to his own. Deans fingers found their way to Castiel’s hair, carding through dark locks, and Castiel’s fingers stayed pressed to Dean’s tattooed heart, silently praying that this moment not be taken from him, that the flesh and bone beneath his hand not disappear in the next moment as if had never been there at all.

One day later Dean was still there, waiting for Castiel when he returned from work, only wearing a sheet around his waist, feet propped on the rickety old coffee table with the television playing old western films.

Two days later Dean was still there, wearing Castiel’s slightly too small clothes, cross legged at the end of Castiel’s bed with a pile of Vonnegut books at his knee.

Three days later Dean was still there, fiddling with an old Rubik’s cube, a fully filled out crosswords at his feet.

Four days later Dean was still there, in the kitchen with a heaping plate of chocolate chip cookies steaming at his elbow and a smudge of flower across his forehead which Castiel wiped away with a soft chuckle and tender kiss.

Five days later Dean was still there, fast asleep in their bed, Slaughterhouse Five spread open on his chest as it rose and fell evenly with each breath. Castiel had tucked the blankets around Dean and set the book aside, sliding in by his side.

Six days later Dean was still there, and Castiel was convinced that each morning he woke with Dean by his side would continue to be a surprise, each kiss surreal. But he was okay with that.

At least he was no longer lonely.


End file.
